


god, what did i do wrong

by behradtarazi



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, Catholic Guilt, Catholicism, Gen, Human Raphael Santiago, Hurt Raphael Santiago, Post-Canon, Raphael Santiago Has Feelings, Vampire Turning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23561785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behradtarazi/pseuds/behradtarazi
Summary: Raphael Santiago used to be a vampire.He was and now he’s not, and that rediscovered humanity is more than enough to give him several lifetimes worth of faith. Most days, it feels like a miracle, like a blessing right out of the Bible. (Sometimes, he misses Hotel Dumort, misses the Brooklyn clan. He lays flowers down on his sister’s grave, and forgets.)-Raphael regained his humanity, only to have it taken from him once more.
Relationships: Magnus Bane & Raphael Santiago, Raphael Santiago & Rosa Santiago, Raphael Santiago & the Brooklyn Clan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	god, what did i do wrong

Father Santiago is known for treasuring the little things in life.

He stands in the sun outside the church every morning, taking in the light, and he looks almost holy. Angelic. He’s beautiful. Young, too, and it shows, because when he smiles it’s like sunshine after a long rain and too bright to have seen that much of the world, but.

But.

There’s something in his eyes. Something in his voice.

A sort of knowledge, a sort of pain - maybe he’s just an old soul, you could guess. Maybe he’s been in a war. He never mentioned anything of the sort, but maybe…

You’d be right. Not fully, though.

He keeps his past quiet and his secrets quieter, locked away behind a grin and a rosary.

Raphael Santiago used to be a vampire.

He was and now he’s not, and that rediscovered humanity is more than enough to give him several lifetimes worth of faith. Most days, it feels like a miracle, like a blessing right out of the Bible. (Sometimes, he misses Hotel Dumort, misses the Brooklyn clan. He lays flowers down on his sister’s grave, and forgets.)

What’s the point of a second chance if you don’t take it, if you don’t make the most of it in every way you can?

It’s a reinvention, of sorts, going from the vampire to the human, the Downworlder to the Mundane, the leader to the priest. He’s good. Raphael is good. He’s doing good, he’s helping people with a smile and steady hands, and - some things don’t change.

Some things don’t change.

Can’t change, not really, not completely.

He still cooks every Sunday, makes tamales and thinks of his mama. His license plate still reads  _ Ave Rosa.  _ He is still the last of his family. Still alone.

Maybe moreso, now that his clan is gone, and he might have God and his sister’s grave and humans and sunlight (Lord, he loves sunlight) and so much more, but - he misses family.

He hates it. He will always miss family.

And then.

He gets an invitation to Magnus’ birthday party. It’s a surprise, and Raphael finds himself being the first person Alec goes to for help. He bakes the cake, though anyone who asks is told he bought it. Every once in awhile, a vampire comes knocking on his door sometime between midnight and three in the morning. Raphael doesn’t ask questions, just gives them his wrist or a glass full of goat’s blood or a fiercely tight hug that can take even the dead’s breath away. There are some people you never forget, even when you live forever. The Daylighter asks for help he won’t ever return, hands tucked into the pockets of a suit Raphael distinctly remembers letting him borrow and never getting back. He’ll be late for work, but he helps him anyways. Apparently, that’s what caring’s like.

It’s little things, and it’s enough.

He’s happy.

And he thinks Rosa would be proud.

It seems like every minute Raphael isn’t in church, he’s either out in the sun or in a soup kitchen or a shelter, working tirelessly, free time used for service. He’s charming, sweet, always ends up playing with the kids no matter how hard he tries to stay aloof, and amuses their parents and grandparents with references he looks too young to know.

Atoning’s never felt so good. Faith’s never been so sweet.

But if there’s one thing that Raphael should have learned over decades of being a vampire, it’s that nothing lasts forever. 

Humanity has a way of bringing out the softness in him, however. Bringing out the hope. The naivete. Bringing out the best of him, really, the man he could have always been, in another life where the world was so much kinder. 

A girl comes into one of the shelters at night, and it’s not long before Raphael recognizes the pain on her face and the pale of her skin and the way that she shakes, recognizes the  _ hunger.  _ It’s dangerous, he knows, being human and going anywhere near her, but better him than anyone else, anyone who doesn’t know, who hasn’t felt the fear and the desperation that come with being young and being alone and being a newly-turned vampire. He pulls her aside, and it’s easy to remember what to do, words and gestures rehearsed to perfection and so familiar that for a few dangerous moments he almost thinks that he’s back at the Dumort again, that he’s a vampire again.

He isn’t, though.

He’s human, and he’s standing in front of a ravenous fledgling, and starting to realize that he might have just traded his life away for those of everyone else in the building.

Father Santiago thinks it’s worth it.

But Raphael?

Raphael doesn’t.

There’s an ugly, bitter part of him that swears that nothing could ever be worth it. That’s the monster in him, he says. The vampire. The demon.

(Really, it’s the human.)

The papers are calling for heads to roll.

_ Brooklyn Priest Brutally Murdered _ , they scream.  _ Good Samaritan Found Dead!  _ It’s there, front page news, stark black and white, but the Downworld still has trouble believing it.  _ Who would dare come after him?  _ the Dumort questions.  _ Who would  _ **_dare_ ** _?  _ Fangs come out, ready to draw blood.

Arguably, it’s vampire business, but Raphael was a Mundane for his final moments, and so the Shadowhunters get involved. 

By the time they arrive at the morgue, his body is gone.

Gone.

Disappeared into thin air. 

That only raises more questions, clenches more fists, pointed glances shot at Shadowhunters and werewolves alike. It’s tension rapidly readying to spill over into violence, a kind of unprofessionalism Raphael would have loathed, but that’s the problem, isn’t it?  _ Would have.  _

It’s hard, when you only realize how much you care when it’s too late to do anything about it.

There’s a small cemetery tucked away in the shadow of the city’s skyline, easily dismissed, forgotten. The headstones are crumbled with age and neglect. Nobody ever bothers to leave flowers.

Not even for its newest resident.

That's alright, though. He won't be there for long.

The clock strikes two, and Raphael Santiago crawls his way out of hell for the second time, teeth bared, eyes empty and almost soulless, so dark you could drown in them. Three blood bags lie beside his grave, and he pounces on them with a ferocious rage, wanting anything,  _ needing  _ anything to fill the gnawing, aching emptiness inside of him.

Distantly, there's a part of him that's deep in mourning, grieving humanity lost,  _ paradise  _ lost, but not for the first time in his life Raphael doesn't give a fuck, vampire beating out the human every time. Every time.

Blood tastes better than he remembered. Looks better than he remembered, too, on the tips of his fangs like something out of a fucking movie, but a movie can't kill you, and he can. He can. He will.

He stands, ignoring the way his hands tremble, a junkie yearning for another fix, and focuses in on that anger. He doesn't know who turned him. He doesn't know who buried him, damned him to immortality once more.

But he'll find them, he will.

Father Santiago be damned. He's just Raphael now.

And Raphael wants his revenge.

The first time Raphael was turned, he had something to fight for: his family.

He held a cross in trembling hands, walked on consecrated ground, cried  _ Dios  _ even as he choked on blood, all to get back to his mother, to his sister, to his brothers. Family is what kept his head above the water, what gave his unconquerable will a goal to strive to.

Now?

_ Now? _

He is the only Santiago left. He has seen the rest of them buried, watched them all age and die, nursed the hurt, the emptiness where his memories of goodbyes should be. The most human part of him tries to say, tries to remind him,  _ You have Magnus. You have the Clan, you have -  _ it is all too easy to ignore it. Monsters have no one, and the self-loathing is easy to sink back into. So, so easy.

He walks back to the apartment that used to be his, a small place he had been keeping outside of his church where the vampires could come to visit, combing the dirt out of his hair as he goes, fixing his formerly trademarked scowl back onto his face.

When he is sitting in his kitchen, he holds a burning cross in one hand and a blood bag in the other, and begins all over again.

While Raphael relearns agony, the tension grows.

The Dumort’s wrath will not be contained, as searches for Raphael’s murderer come up cold, the Shadowhunters useless and the werewolves...too quiet. Too quiet. It starts out only with an added edge to the usual antagonism, insults thrown across the street, but all too soon it ends up here: two groups facing off, adrenaline growing, blood about to be spilled.

But when the first vampire charges forward, the first werewolf shifts, they both find themselves knocked to the ground, a dark figure snarling as he turns towards the wolves, fangs sharp and ready for a kill. “Stay away from my clan,” he growls, then turns on the vampires, lets the streetlight fall on his face, illuminate the familiar eyes, the scar on the side of his face. “And you! What are you doing, starting fights like this?  _ Estúpido _ . Did you all forget how to think when I left, hm? Go back to the Dumort.”

“ _ Raphael? _ ”

He tilts his head slightly at the incredulity, arms crossed. “That was an  _ order _ .”

Too surprised to argue, they obey, and Raphael only gives the werewolves a short glance over his shoulder, a respectful nod, before he follows.

It doesn’t take Raphael long to get control of his clan back. The former leader protests, and Raphael is at his throat in a moment, all of his usual grace with three times the ferocity as he stares the man down, anger overwhelming. Every other vampire in the room backs him up, and the fight is over before it even begins.

The girl who bit him is procured in under a day, and Raphael has none of the kindness Father Santiago did as he chases her out of the city and tells her what will happen if she tries to come back.  _ It’s cruel _ , a small voice in the back of his mind whispers, but he has no mercy left in him, not now.

Finding the person who turned him takes more time. Too much time, and the whispers start to spread, start to become more than whispers, as the city realizes that Raphael Santiago is home and meaner than ever, sends Shadowhunters on high alert and Magnus...the news sends Magnus to the Dumort’s front door, and Raphael’s unbeating heart is heavy with guilt when he sees the  _ look  _ on the warlock’s face, the battle of hope and grief in his eyes.

“Magnus-” he starts, but cuts himself off even before Magnus has him in his arms, pulling him into a tight hug that Raphael doesn’t resist for once, might even be leaning slightly into. It’s awhile before Magnus lets him go, traces the scar on his cheek and then pulls away, looking so worried that a part of Raphael that he knows used to care actually  _ aches _ , a painful, low thing that might make someone else wish they hadn’t let Magnus in at all. But Raphael is not someone else. And he knows enough of hurt to be unfazed by a thing as small as heartbreak.

“My dear boy, what has happened to you?”

The hint of a smile Raphael gives in return feels hollow, faked, even to him. “Don’t worry about me. I’m alright.”

Two weeks later, Raphael is alone with the vampire who turned him, the vampire who left him to choke on gravedirt, the vampire who made the worst mistake of his life the night he stole that body from the morgue. He is on the ground and Raphael is standing over him, just them and a room that is completely black - except for the sunlight filtering in from a hole in the ceiling, that dangerous fire that sends a spark of fear into the vampire’s eyes.

Raphael looks at the blaze, and remembers a time when he had charged toward a similar sight, a fledgling recklessly reaching for death. Magnus saved him, then.

There is no one here who would save him now.

He is only snapped out of his trance by the vampire begging, a pitiful sound, a pathetic mantra of “please, Father,  _ please… _ ”

He has the man by the collar a moment later, snarling, usual cool gone. “Do  _ not  _ call me that,” he hisses, fury too strong to be contained by even his formidable control. “You killed him!  _ Do you understand me?  _ God has no love for vampires -  _ I am no Father.  _ I am  _ nothing  _ to Him, nothing but a  _ monster.  _ And you? You are even  _ worse.  _ You have taken  _ everything  _ from me. And I am no man of God anymore.”

Easy as breathing, Raphael throws him into the only light of the room, and remembers what it once felt to have the sun dance on his skin.


End file.
